Temple: The Prophecy of the Hidden Treasure (Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries Book 7)

by Bill Thompson

  Once again Abdel fumbled for an answer. "I'm shipping some things to someone ... uh, a dealer who wants to buy them."

  "A friend in America, I'm sure. Those crates are quite large and your store is almost empty now. What are you and Mr. Sadler planning? Are you leaving, Abdel? Al Qaeda inserted you into Israel long ago and you have gotten rich and lazy from the rewards of living among the infidels. Would you give up the cause of jihadism and go to live with the Great Satan?"

  Abdel said nothing. He wasn't sure now why they had come or what they wanted from him. He didn't know what to think, but this discussion wasn't going well.

  Ibrahim shouted, "Answer my question! Are you planning to run away? Because you know the consequences for that. Each of us does. You know who sent us here and you are afraid – I can sense your fear from across the table. And you are right to be afraid. I sense you are too weak to be one of us! The leader senses it too. You know how he deals with weakness, do you not? Perhaps I should tell him ..."

  Abdel was struggling to keep down the bile rising in his throat. He shook his head violently and wailed, "No, no. There is no need to tell him anything. You misunderstand my caution for weakness, my brother. It is good to be wary of the infidels. I am steadfast, as are we all. Give me a little time and I will find out where the treasure you seek is hidden."

  "Enough!" Ibrahim roared, standing up, overturning the table and sending the teapot and cups crashing to the floor. "Your words are lies! You have been to a cavern somewhere in the north. You took the infidel there. Tariq knows everything! He knows what you are and that you have betrayed our brotherhood. You are not one of us. You are a lying fool and your days are numbered. Cooperate with me and perhaps the leader will grant you a quick death. Continue your deception and you'll die slowly as I pull your intestines into your lap while you watch." He looked at his partner and said, "Restrain him!"

  Abdel wept as the other man jerked him to his feet and secured his hands behind his back with a twist-tie. Now he knew this was about Tariq. He was doomed. But when he heard the man's next words, he knew it wasn't just about the jihadist – they were here to steal the treasure too.

  "At daybreak, you will take us to the treasure," Ibrahim said, wishing they no longer needed this despicable piece of dung. He had no time for weak people and he was looking forward to presiding over the brutal interrogation that faced Abdel whether he cooperated or not.

  Abdel trembled like a beaten dog. "Yes, sir," he said submissively, "but how will we get there? I have no car."

  "With Allah's help, I will procure a vehicle. Leave that part to me." Ibrahim instructed his partner to take Abdel upstairs to his bedroom and remain by his side every moment. Then he left, walking through busy streets and quiet, dark ones. At last he found what he wanted. He hot-wired a rusty 1970s Chevy parked in front of a boarded-up house and swapped license tags with a car a few blocks away. Forty-five minutes after he had left, he parked his new ride two blocks from Abdel's gallery. Soon he was getting some sleep while his partner watched Abdel toss and turn in his bed. The junior man could catch up on sleep tomorrow while Ibrahim drove.

  Shortly after dawn the door to Abdel's shop opened and he emerged, his hands still tethered behind him. The men took him by each arm and walked to the place where the car was parked. Ibrahim shoved Abdel into the backseat and locked the doors. The old sedan coughed to life and they were off.

  Brian watched them leave from a darkened alley across the street. He had stayed behind last evening to find out what was happening. Through the unbroken storefront window, he watched the men talking in the back of the store. He watched one of them angrily rise, saw the china crash to the floor, and noted Abdel's terror-stricken face as one man yelled while the other tied his hands. Then one of them left the gallery.

  Brian had followed him as he strode purposefully to the busy Via Dolorosa without taking in anything around him. There were hundreds of people in the area enjoying the peaceful evening after two tense days of conflict. Street cafés were filled with laughing couples eager to resume their lives. With all the pedestrian traffic, it was easy for Brian to keep his target in sight without getting too close. The man abruptly turned from the well-lit avenue into a darkened, narrow street. Brian carefully glanced around the corner before creeping into the gloom himself. Although he couldn't see his quarry now, he could hear his footsteps. When he heard a car door open, Brian hesitated. A minute or two later headlights bathed the deserted street in a glow and an engine coughed to life. He stayed in the shadows as a vintage Chevrolet sedan passed him, turned at the corner and disappeared.

  Brian arrived back on Abdel's street just in time to see the man enter the gallery and lock the door. Soon the light at the back of the shop was extinguished. All that was left was a faint glow through tattered curtains on the second floor – the place Abdel earlier had said was his living quarters. He glanced at his watch, saw it was nearly midnight, and settled in for a long, chilly night in the alley.

  The lights in the shop came on just before six. The three men came out and walked two blocks to where the old Chevy was parked. They shoved Abdel into the back, got in front and drove away as Brian watched everything.

  Having no way to follow them, he returned to the alley and stayed put for another hour. When nothing happened, he walked to the gallery, tried the door and found it unlocked. Acutely aware that they could return at any moment, he quickly looked around for anything that might show who Abdel's captors were. There was an ashtray full of cigarette butts and the smashed tea set. Upstairs he noticed that two people had slept in separate bedrooms, but there were no clues to tell him what had happened. For now, there was nothing he could do. He'd come back later and hope that they brought Abdel back. If they didn't, he had an entirely new set of issues to consider.

  He returned to the hotel and saw the message light flashing on his room phone. Cynthia Beal had called to let him know that the regional airports would reopen tomorrow morning. She advised that every flight was booked solid, but she had used embassy privilege to snag one coach seat on a 2 p.m. flight from Haifa to Athens. She asked that he return her call as soon as possible to confirm he would be on that flight, but he couldn't leave yet. He had to help Abdel if he could.

  He stepped into the shower and turned on a stream of water as hot as he could tolerate. As it rushed down his back, he pondered what to do. Earlier he had decided to stay in Israel just long enough to ensure the treasure was safe. Now it was much more than that – it appeared Abdel had been kidnapped and he had to do something about it. There was a time the embassy could have helped, but that was no longer possible. What little staff had survived was back in Tel Aviv, attempting to put their lives back together.

  He could call the police or the Mossad, but every agency was overwhelmed, trying to get the country back on track. He might find someone who would listen to him and investigate what had happened, but all that would take up valuable time – time that Abdel didn't have.

  After thirty hours awake, he could fight it no longer. He had devised a plan – maybe not a good one, but the only one he could think of. But first he had to sleep. He closed the blackout shades, advised guest services to hold his calls, and put out the Do Not Disturb sign. He set an alarm on his phone for two p.m.; that would give him what he hoped would be six uninterrupted hours of sleep.

  When he awoke, it took a moment to remember where he was. He glanced at his watch – it was one. One a.m. or one p.m.? Trying to clear his brain and focus, he went to the window and pulled open the drapes. Bright sunlight flooded his room – it was daytime. He'd slept for five hours and felt sufficiently refreshed to implement his plan.

  He visited a couple of stores, made some purchases and walked to a seedy, run-down hotel he'd noticed last night when he followed Abdel's kidnapper. As he walked into the dingy lobby, he couldn't help contrasting it to the opulence of his hotel. The desk clerk wore a dirty muscle shirt. His face was a mass of stubby facial hair and a cigarette hung from h
is lips. Brian asked for a kitchenette and paid a hundred and twenty-five shekels – about thirty-five dollars – in cash.

  "Passport," the clerk grunted, and Brian explained he'd lost his. He palmed a US hundred-dollar bill across the counter and said he hoped there wasn't a problem. The man said nothing; he simply handed over a key and pointed to an ancient lift across the lobby. He noticed his guest's only luggage was a grocery sack, but there was nothing unusual about that. This guy wasn't typical; most people who checked in were either strung out or horny. They were here for drugs or hookers. Maybe this guy wanted both. Maybe his sack was filled with whips and chains. Who knew? Who cared?

  The bedroom was nasty and the bedspread stained and ragged. Thank God I don't have to stay here, he thought. He smiled at what Nicole would have said about it, but he had to concentrate. He must work quickly. He had no idea how much time he had before – or if – Abdel and the thugs returned. If they did, he had to be ready.

  He had chosen this hotel solely because it had a kitchenette. He needed the tiny stove and dented pots and pans. Ignoring roaches scurrying about, he put his purchases – a bag of sugar and a bottle of stump remover he'd picked up at a garden center – on the counter and followed instructions he'd found on the Internet. He mixed up a concoction, cooked it on the stove, and by five p.m. he had left the hotel without either checking out or getting even a glance from the clerk.

  Abdel's shop was exactly as he had left it – no one was there. He slipped inside, went up the stairs, arranged everything on a bed beside him and sat down. He' would wait until twenty-four hours after Abdel’s abduction had passed. If he didn't come back, Brian would have to think of the next step, whatever that would be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A couple of hours later Brian tensed as he heard the front door open. He arranged everything he needed beside him – the stuff he'd cooked up on the stove, some matches and an ax handle. He held one of the flat patties he'd made and got ready. There were the sounds of people walking through the store and then he heard Abdel speaking in Arabic. He didn't have to understand the language to sense the fear in his friend's voice.

  The men were in the back of the store, at the bottom of the stairwell just below where he crouched. He gathered what he needed, stuck a match to one of the patties and tossed it into a room across the hall. In seconds, thick black smoke poured out the door and down the stairs.

  There were shouts from below. Through the haze, he saw one of the men rush up the stairs. As he reached the top, Brian swung the handle and caught him squarely on the back of his head. He crashed to the floor next to Brian. Downstairs, both Abdel and the other man were shouting now. He readied himself and mentally crossed his fingers. The smoke was filling the area where he stood and he hoped he could see which of the two came upstairs next.

  A head popped up from the stairwell and a man looked straight at him. Brian had seconds to react. It wasn't Abdel! He took another mighty swing and heard it connect with a sickening crack.

  Brian ran downstairs and found Abdel on the floor, weeping. Brian cut him loose as Abdel cried, "Are they dead? How could you be here? Is my store on fire?"

  "It's fine! No time!" he yelled, pushing him toward the front of the gallery and out onto the sidewalk. He closed the door behind them to trap the smoke inside the building so passersby wouldn't call the fire brigade and possibly damage Abdel's antiques. He knew from the Internet that the grenades he'd created would burn out quickly. The smoke would be gone minutes later.

  "I'm pretty sure one of the guys I hit is dead, but I don't know about the other one. Your store's fine. It's just a smoke bomb – no lasting effects. We must get away from here. Lock the door and let's go!"

  They walked briskly so as not to attract attention to themselves and exited the Old City through the Lion's Gate. As they walked, Brian asked Abdel if there was someplace they would be safe. Too many people knew Brian was at the David Citadel Hotel, and Abdel's store certainly wasn't an option any more.

  "My cousin has a place," Abdel suggested. "It's a flat in the western part of the city, not far from the museum. I don't know the address, but I can get us there."

  They hailed a cab and went to the Israel Museum. From there Abdel led the way a few blocks to a row of modern townhouses. He explained to Brian that his cousin lived in New York and came to Jerusalem maybe six times a year. "He may be in town, but if he isn't, I still can get into his flat," he added.

  They rang the buzzer several times, and no one answered. Abdel reached up to a porch light, ran his fingers behind the fixture and withdrew a key. Seconds later they were inside and it was clear his cousin was not around. All the drapes were drawn tightly shut and the place had a musty odor. They raised the windows and Abdel opened double doors leading to a small patio on the back side of the building. Soon a pleasant breeze wafted through the apartment.

  Abdel had refused to say anything about what had happened until they could be alone. Now they sat at the kitchen table, sharing a bottle of red wine they had found in the pantry. Abdel pointed out once again he wasn't a big drinker, but Brian assured him after what he'd seen, Abdel needed one.

  Abdel asked Brian if he'd explain how he happened to be at the shop at precisely the right time. Brian described his overnight surveillance mission and how he'd seen them take Abdel this morning. He'd found a recipe for smoke bombs on the Internet and made some in hopes he could take the captors out during the confusion. And things had worked perfectly.

  Now it was Abdel's turn to talk. In the time since his rescue, Abdel had concocted a story that he hoped would be good enough to explain things. He was grateful for his friend's perseverance and that he'd been rescued, but he also knew that Brian now was in the same danger as Abdel himself.

  A lot of people in Israel knew the rumors of the treasure mentioned in Isaiah 45:3, he began. It was a Loch Ness-type legend that sparked the imaginations of those with pure motives and those without. For years Abdel had researched the legend and began to believe it might be true. He had made many inquiries throughout Israel, Jordan and Syria before he was finally contacted by a man who knew where the cave was. The men who had abducted him had captured that man and forced him to talk. They had come to his shop, pretending to be customers, but instead they threatened to kill him if he didn't show them where the cavern was.

  "You took them to the cave?" Brian asked, fearful about the safety of the treasure.

  "I had no choice. They would have killed me."

  "Why did they bring you back? Surely they didn't intend to just let you go." That didn't make sense to Brian.

  Abdel's mind raced as he made up another answer. "Because I told them there was another cache of treasure besides this one, in a place I had never been myself. I was convinced it was real, I told them. I offered to give them a map."

  "There isn't really another treasure hoard – right? How did you intend to deal with that?"

  "There isn't, but it was the only thing I could think of. I have hundreds of old maps at the shop. I would have given them one that would occupy them long enough for me to get away somehow. Speaking of that, I owe you a huge debt, Brian. You surely saved my life."

  Brian knew he was right. These men wouldn't have let Abdel live. If he hadn't made up the map story, he was sure they'd have killed Abdel after he showed them the cavern.

  "What do we do next?" Abdel asked. "I cannot go back to my shop now."

  "I'm glad you realize that. I was afraid you were going to convince me we still had to rescue your objects. Nothing's worth dying for, Abdel, and you must let that go. The thing I hope we can salvage is the treasure itself. Do you think these two men were working alone?"

  "I believe so," he lied.

  Brian laid out a plan. "The most important thing right now is to get you out of Israel," he began. "I got a call from Washington. I have a seat on a flight tomorrow from Haifa to Athens. I want you to take that flight. Your safety is critical. If the men weren't working alone, there will be
others looking for you, but they don't know about me. I'll get out as soon as I can and meet you in Greece. Then we'll go to London. There's an extra bedroom in our flat, and you'll be safe there."

  It was truly a good plan, Abdel concurred, insisting that they stay here for tonight, which made perfect sense to Brian. He called Cynthia and explained the situation. She said the president wouldn't be pleased, but she promised to relay his request. Fifteen minutes later she called back and confirmed Abdel's seat on tomorrow's flight and Brian's on a morning flight the day after. Less than twenty-four hours after Abdel left Israel, Brian would meet up with him in Athens. He booked a room online at a small hotel on the harbor, where Abdel could stay until Brian arrived.

  Abdel said there was a market on the corner, where he could buy food for dinner, but Brian insisted on going himself to keep Abdel safe. Soon he returned and they prepared fish and vegetables with couscous and opened another bottle of wine. During dinner, Abdel said there was one problem.

  "My passport is at the shop. Before I go to Haifa Airport, I will have to get it."

  "You can't go back there. It's too risky."

  "I have no choice. It's hidden and you'll never find it yourself."

  It was a dangerous move, but Brian agreed he couldn't leave without documents, so they'd go there together in the morning. Brian called the hotel concierge and arranged a car and driver for 9 a.m.

  He was there by eight. He packed his bags, checked out and gave the driver the address of the flat. They picked up Abdel and went to his shop, where everything appeared totally quiet. Abdel wanted to go in by himself, but Brian insisted on coming too.

  "Didn't we lock the door yesterday?" Brian said when Abdel turned the knob and opened it. Abdel nodded. They listened for a moment but heard nothing. While Abdel got his passport, Brian crept up the stairs and looked around. A body lay in a pool of blood, its shattered skull a grim reminder of the encounter yesterday.